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  Jun 2020 voodoo
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If my hands could tell a story, they'd say how your spine always looked beautiful in the morning,
when the sun's rays created shadows that danced along your back and flirted with your neck
like they'd never meet again.
They'd say how your lips always curved upwards as if they were saying hello.
If my hands could tell a fairytale, there'd be no happy ending,
there'd be no end at all.
I wish my lips could finally part to say the right things,
because all I want to do is hear your name roll off my tongue,
in the same sentence as "you're mine".
I want them to tell the story of your lips,
red, and taunting and always mysterious.
I always got a toothache when you weren't in the room.
I think I need a root canal.
If my knees could speak they'd tell you how lovely it was
to bend to curl to your legs.
If my knees could tell a story, they'd describe the cold, hard
bitter kiss of death they shared with the pavement so many times
when I found your bags at the door.
If my knees could beg, they'd ask for forgiveness.
For being too bony, too weak,
for not being able to support your dreams.
(I'd give up anything now for that little apartment in New York
and nothing but two typewriters)
If my fingers had a chance, they'd trace the familiar lines of your collarbones
and over your shoulders, because by now they've committed them to memory.
If my fingers had a chance, they'd hold yours again.
They say to stay away from broken people but I saw you as a puzzle
just waiting for someone to put you back together again.
If my eyes could tell a story they would whisper softly of your flowing hair
and pixie-like body.
They would ask you to stay.
They would jump out of my body to give you a glimpse of how I see you.
They would show you how utterly unprecedented you are.
If I believed in heaven I would tell you that you're a miracle.
That you are something I wished upon for years as a child.
You are a star.
You are a supernova.
You are a black hole, ******* me in and twisting me about until I am nothing
but battered limbs and my broken heart.
You are God with the Devil's kiss.
If my lips could move they'd say "stay".
You were mine.
voodoo May 2020
white surfaces flash in fluorescent lighting –

this is no opus, heaving on cold bathroom tiles,

blood and grain against porcelain,

convulsing creature in all its grotesque obloquy:

bleary and snotting. four-walled, windowless, antiseptic vivarium;

life crawls outside. it thrives, it devours, it fortifies.

inside, here, it repulses. ****** effluvium of all kinds.

sharp shrieks of skin across glossed floor, tears soak

before the cliff of the jaw. nothing stays.

wiping drool off the sterile sink and sweat off my knotted back.

snarls choking into sobs, sobs gasping for air.

this is no opus; blackening from corners,

the repugnant vignette held between fingernails –

for the contagious odium of the resigned abhorrent

bleeds and drips and stains.

neglect and rejection strewn like pearls,

pearls, worth nothing, feeling everything.

a fly buzzes in the stark fluorescent light,

and blackness climbs in. blackness consumes.
voodoo Apr 2020
under the sludge of this depression, I am awake. it’s morning outside but that doesn’t change a thing.

tiredness takes me to quiet places. I follow like I’m devout.

this forest is new. there’s a drumming of a heartbeat within the trunks of these trees.

it thrums under my fingertips. blood rushes forward to touch this rhythm.

songbirds nest, plume against plume for love and for rest. the birdsong is sweet as saccharine.

I taste the sap on my lips, its nectar, thick with agape. a salve for myriad laments under the roof of a single bell jar.

the indigo sky convulses, telling of fortunes. the clouds retch gilded roses.

blades of grass fence the circumferences of leaves in gypsy winds. the forest warms like a flame.

my body sways in solipsistic wonder. the crescents of my nails are crusted with lichen.

my limbs are drawn into its boughs, like gravity. like the bark is starved.

my mind is foliage and my crown is littered with inflorescence. my sky is finally cerulean and lilac.

each gall is an ancient hurt. each wound is a knot.

I breathe my mourning. I wait to bloom.
voodoo Apr 2020
even when I was little I had a hard time leaving wounds alone —

the absent-minded uprooting of scabs and the slow flame of revived pain.

to bleed in so many small ways, to be so oblivious to being real.

if only they were tiny sacrifices, tiny offerings to whoever dealt out hurt and sadness, if only they were enough to keep my nose above water.

I find myself lost within four walls in more ways than one.

they say you should smoke sage in all your corners,

smudge its grey into the darkness. they say it puts the past to rest.

I burn leaves and I burn grass and I burn letters and thoughts and touches and it makes me blacker, blacker, blacker.

the remains of grief wait, latched shut in its music box. I can’t bear its singing. I can’t tear this flesh off my bones. I can’t make myself fiction.

but you did. you did and now I fade into a ballad not even worth its weight in the heartbreak it rhymes.

to have sought poetry only to plummet into misery. to have the currency of my decomposing tongue and no concoction of words to soothe the damage.

the rot runs deep. the rot is real. the rot is all I feel.

you’re all the lives kept out of my reach
voodoo Apr 2020
I scrape the crust at the folds of your reflection.

it’s dismaying to know we’ve to retire yet another door.

I keep tasting grey everywhere I go. I wish something would surprise me.

every day blends into the next,

a cocktail with no flavour but plenty of potency,

drowning memory and time into glasses of obsolescence.

so I go on burying my ichor in dirt.

you, in your temperamental Lethe —

you can mourn your loss and

you can lash your back in repentance and

you can swear you’ll never let your heart beat in your hands again and

you can swallow each year of sorrow like a bitter pill and

you can chase it with the poison of amnesia to **** the ghosts of loss and

I will stay on my toes because hope is petulant

and she knows how to resuscitate the dead

even when lungs and worlds collapse.

I’ve lived in goodbyes for long enough to know their taste in words

but you never let me kiss them off your lips so I’ll breathe —

and I’ll hope that hope does what she can.
voodoo Apr 2020
“so…how long do I have to be in my head for this one?…oh, alright. that doesn’t help at all.”

I guess you never asked for it, or even stuck around to find out

how you brought me to my knees only to make me fall apart

how obscene to want to be seen

after years spent watching over you

opening all the doors you closed on me silently

making mistakes like you made our bed

and tucked me in like your long-lost child

how long I waited in the middle of it all, the walls crumbling

the ceiling pushing down, sitting on my chest

every gasp forced into empty song you’d never play to me

your other foot already across the threshold

you made a slow disaster out of me

what of this disappointment? what of the echoes in my head?

you don’t pack those up

erase, erase

slam down on the backspace

turning over a brand new page

no lines you left to retrace

when did this become a wild goose chase?

I turn people around and see blank faces

I drain my veins and lay to waste

draw the curtains

dim the lights

goodbye.
voodoo Oct 2019
I'm here once more, but then again when was I not?

as if my eyes have ever shifted from my reflection. I'm sick of it.

I don't know how long I've been here; this dimly lit trap gives away no time.

all else melts around me, pools into ripples of my distorted reality.

I sit and I watch my face. I long for the familiarity of yesteryears that I cannot trace.

my skin yawns open, wills to consume itself - porous, velutinous, and brittle.

this is who I am, this is what I see:

tyrian purple flesh decomposing, falling inside my bones that split and splinter;

my mind climbing out of my head, fugitive from the skull's prison;

breaths, ribbons of grotesque, not deep enough to last and not shallow enough to be numbered.

everything without is human (decaying though it is), and everything within is dissimulation.

this molten, fragmented un-being doesn't escape my sight. these eyes have cried out for respite -

and yet they exist, the odd and sole constant in the mirror before them -

wistful for oblivion and feasting on fear. what's gone has kept me alive for longer than it appears.

this body doesn't even feel real. my fingertips burn at every touch.

what more shrapnel does this heart desire until it plays out its final beat?
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